Hot date
by Chinese Bakery
Summary: She won’t be stupid enough to fall in love with an inmate. Not to mention a married inmate. Season 1, MichaelSara


"Your arm, Mr Scofield," she says, with a nod to his sleeve.

She insists on addressing him only as "Mister Scofield" with her best formal intonation, the one she uses with the most obnoxious inmates, those who show up at the infirmary for a cold or a sore back, when really, they just want to leer at her.

Every time she says his name in that well-practiced, impersonal tone, she thinks she catches a subtle, satisfying flinch, but it's so elusive she can never tell for sure. If it bothers him, he never mentioned it. He plays along, calling her by her medical title, only betraying what used-to-be by trying to make eye-contact when she obviously refuses to look at him.

As she turns to grab a syringe, she catches his gaze for the first time, but he's not looking at her. His piercing eyes are staring at something over her shoulder. She turns and notices that he's in fact glaring at the outfit hanging by her desk. It's still wrapped in plastic from the dry-cleaning, but anyone with observation skills could tell it's a dress. A pretty dress, the kind of dress you slip in after work to go out on a date.

If she was honest with herself, she would have to admit that she left it a little more on display than she would have if she hadn't had an appointment with Michael Scofield that day.

"Hot date?" he asks with the hint of a frown, and she's pleased to observe that if he meant to sound playful, he failed quite noticeably.

She shrugs and grabs his arm to give him his shot. She does have a date, one she's hardly looking forward to, but a date nonetheless. Truth be told, she never would have accepted to have dinner with Dr Phillips, someone a persistent friend was eager to set her up with, if she hadn't caught Michael Scofield leaving the conjugal visit room with his wife a couple days ago. A wife she didn't know existed.

"Something like that, yes," she finally replies, because the sight of the two of them smiling at each others just flashed in front of her eyes and she can feel the anger rise again.

An anger that is mostly directed at herself. Of course, she knows she's an idiot for allowing him to have this kind of power in the first place. She should never have let herself care.

But it doesn't make her feel any less manipulated and cheated.

"I take it it's not with an ex-con?"

"Nope." She has to hand it to him, he recovers quickly. The playfulness is there, the charming smile back in place. She doesn't say anything else, because that would be giving himthe upper hand again. She's going to go out with this Doctor –what's his name again? – and have fun. She'll be witty and enticing, not to mention looking great in that dress, and she'll get Michael Scofield out of her hair in less time than it takes to say 'secretly married'. She can't let him affect her anymore. She won't be stupid enough to fall in love with an inmate. Not to mention a married inmate.

As he leaves the infirmary, he turns back to her and this time, their eyes meet.

"Have fun," he mutters, and there's something in his eyes that she can't quite pinpoint. Is it sadness? Disappointment? She can't tell for sure, but there's definitely something there, and it makes her happier than it should.

------

When he enters the infirmary the next day, he's disgruntled and irritable and he hopes she won't notice. He's mad at himself for letting her affect him, for making him question his so carefully thought out plan. He needs to stay focused on Lincoln, there's no room for the confusion her new biting behaviour is causing him.

He keeps his eyes firmly planted on the wall behind her as he raises his sleeve without a word.

She had a date last night. She wore a red dress that probably looked fantastic on her, suiting her complexion and the singular shade of her hair. He tormented himself all night long, imagining scenarios, making up premises with a meticulous attention to details. He wondered if he made her smile the way she did when he mentioned the flower. If she laughed. If she kissed him goodnight. If anything else happened. After all, she was the one who said nice girls finished last.

He tells himself it's the lack of sleep that makes his stomach ache so badly.

When the heavy silence becomes too much, he finally consents to ask the question that's been burning his lips.

"So, how was that date?"

He regrets it the second he's said the words and braces himself for a speech on proper doctor-patient etiquette. He's not allowed to call her by her first name anymore; surely asking her about the way she spends her evenings is out of line. When she doesn't reply, he dares to look at her. He meets her eyes and they look soft, softer than they have since Nika's visit. He must really look as miserable as he feels.

"Doctor. Boring as hell. Can talk of nothing but skin diseases," she says quickly, and he feels himself unclench. She's holding his arm and must have felt it too; he can't help but feeling embarrassed. She smiles, not her flirtatious, alluring smile, but a comforting one.

"You're married, Michael. And you're my patient. This," she says as her hand motions between them, "has to stop."

He would agree if he went so intent on the fact that she just called him by his first name again. He's probably smiling like an idiot but can't bring himself to care. She has practically admitted that his infatuation is reciprocated.

She's right, though, he can't keep wasting that much energy wondering about Sara's –Doctor Tancredi's– nocturnal activities, or imagining her smiling teasingly, looking stunning in a red cocktail dress. He's not stupid enough to fall in love with the prison doctor.

"I bet you looked fantastic in that dress," he hears himself say, and her cheeks tint slightly. Her fingers linger on his arm a little longer than necessary, and without realising that he has moved, he's suddenly much closer, close enough to touch her face. He could easily kiss her, but he knows some lines aren't meant to be crossed. Instead, he raises his hand to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear and as his fingers brush her neck, murmurs, "If you wanted to make me jealous, it worked."

Without another word, he lets himself slip from the table and heads for the door. When he looks back, she's still frozen into place, looking at him helplessly, and he realises that he won't get any rest that night.

And maybe, she won't either.


End file.
